


Sharpest Lives

by neversaydie



Series: Somewhat Damaged [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Blood, Clint Needs a Hug, Depression, Injury, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Past Abuse, Self-Harm, Somewhat Damaged 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:19:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neversaydie/pseuds/neversaydie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rather than getting better, he feels like he's going backwards.</p><p>When Clint's hands shake so much that even he can't compensate on the range, and he misses a target for the first time in three years, something snaps.</p><p>He puts his fist through a window and feels nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharpest Lives

**Author's Note:**

> Self-harm depicted: cuts, stitching. Not super graphic.
> 
> This is a bit of an experimental piece for me, so I hope it works.
> 
> The medication discussed is in American terms, and since I'm not American I might have messed up something in my research, my apologies. I'd also like to stress that Clint's experiences with medication and his disorder are specific to Clint, not a catch-all.

For someone like Clint, adjusting to life on medication is its own unique battle.

He's never been tied down like this. Even working for SHIELD he's never had much of a routine, and it's not like he grew up with a bedtime, or anywhere to be except the big top at show time. He doesn't give a shit what they put him on, to start with. He's still a little bit in shock about the whole thing, shoves the pills into Phil's hands and lets him decide if the potential side effects outweigh their usefulness.

Clint doesn't want anything to do with it, he just does as he's told. He's a smartass, but he's a good soldier. He figures he can still follow orders, even if his head is fucked.

This is the first time in Clint's life that he has to wake up at the same time every morning, even on his days off, and take a pill. It's the first time he has to plan his meals so he can take his medication with food, after he finds out the hard way that it makes him puke if he doesn't. It's definitely not the first time he hits a low so bad that he can't force himself out of bed, but it's the first time he lets Phil see him like that, because he doesn't have a choice.

It's the first time Phil realises how bad it really is, that the unresponsive kid he'd hauled out of a motel room in Atlanta had been lurking below the surface the whole time. It's the first time Phil realises how hard Clint's been working to make it seem like he's alright when he's not.

The pills make him sick, and they don't even seem to do anything to help for all the trouble they cause. If he isn't puking up whatever he's forced himself to eat then he's shaking like a leaf in the wind, spilling coffee on important documents and fumbling arrows like he hasn't since he was a child. He has to concentrate so hard on seeming normal in front of the team that he collapses into bed every night, exhausted, but still can't sleep.

Rather than getting better, he feels like he's going backwards.

When Clint's hands shake so much that even _he_ can't compensate on the range, and he misses a target for the first time in three years, something snaps.

He puts his fist through a window and feels nothing.

Steve finds him sitting with his back against the wall, blood pouring from deep gashes in his wrist and hand and not giving a shit. For the first time that Clint's seen, Captain America looks afraid. He can't deal with causing that.

He screws his eyes shut and stops looking.

Next thing he knows he's surrounded by noise and people are touching him and he tenses up, bringing his uninjured arm up to cover his eyes and block them out. He wishes Steve's panic hadn't brought the whole house down around him. Seeing him like this. Seeing him weak. Then it's quiet again and there's just a single, hesitant, gentle touch on his shoulder.

"Clint?" It's Banner. He's relieved, though he's not sure why. "I'm going to take a look at your arm, is it okay if I touch you?"

He nods, and Bruce is so fucking gentle when he picks up the injured limb and moves it to get a better look that Clint wants to cry. His eyes stay closed, partly because he doesn't know what'll happen if he can see what he's done, and partly to keep the threatening tears in.

"You're gonna need stitches. Is it okay if I do them, or do you want me to take you to the hospital?"

"Rather you." Clint finally forces out. Words are escaping him, running too far behind his thoughts to keep up. These are the times that he truly believes he's crazy. Bruce wraps something around his arm and pulls it tight.

"Okay, let me just grab the stuff I need. Will you be okay on your own, or do you want me to get Natasha?"

"Be fine." The lump in his throat is still there, choking any illusion of composure he could muster.

Banner leaves.

It's quiet. Clint moves his arm from across his face but doesn't open his eyes. He starts counting his breaths, trying to calm down as his thoughts race, tripping over each other and skittering away from him. He still feels twitchy, ants crawling through his veins carrying cold caffeine. He starts shaking again.

Selfishly, he hopes someone called Phil.

Banner comes back. He doesn't waste any time getting to work on Clint's arm, and by how cold the archer feels he guesses the cuts must have been bad.

"Phil's on his way." The numbing cream he's spread on Clint's arm has taken effect, but Clint still jumps when Bruce first touches him with a needle. "Steve called him."

"Thanks."

Clint finally opens his eyes, not wanting to watch his mind spin away from him anymore. He focuses on the steady manner in which Bruce is patching him up instead. There's something comforting about his competence, the same as there had been about some guy in a suit sitting next to his motel bed, telling him calmly how his future was going to be. If someone else knew what they were doing, then Clint could relax a little. As long as he didn't have to make any decisions at the moment, he'd be okay. He could concentrate on breathing, and everything else would work itself out.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Bruce isn't shy about asking, although he keeps his tone calm and non-accusatory. "I've never seen you get angry like this about something trivial."

"I…" Clint starts, but he can't finish. His thoughts are all jumbled up and tumbling like he's stuck in some joke of a washing machine. He closes his mouth helplessly, looking at Bruce like he'll be able to help.

"You've been acting differently for a while." Bruce prompts. "You've lost weight, your hands are shaky, and you've seemed pretty out of it, to be honest. Are you okay, or is this something to worry about?"

Like he doesn't know it's something to worry about. The rest of the team probably think he's on crack by now. Clint scoffs mentally, ironing out his flailing thoughts into the best sentences he can manage before he speaks.

"I got- a few weeks ago, longer than that though, like a month, couple of months maybe—"

He stops himself. Breathes. Tries again.

"I, uh, I'm bipolar."

This information isn't shocking to Banner, apparently, as he nods in understanding and starts on his next stitch.

"And you just got diagnosed?" Clint nods, grateful for the yes or no question. "Are you on medication?"

"Yeah. It doesn't, fuck, but it doesn't fucking work."

The tears are running now, but he's not crying.

This has been happening since the pills; Clint starts crying and doesn't realise it, only noticing when tears drip onto whatever he's doing, or when someone asks him if he's okay. There have been a lot of weird (terrible) excuses flying around the tower as a result, including spontaneous allergies and traumatic _Band of Brothers_ marathons. Those laughable efforts are the best ones he could come up with on the spot, although he's had a lot on his plate, to be fair.

Banner nods again, seemingly unfazed by the random tears and word salad Clint's got going on right now. If he could wrangle his mind under control, Clint might just kiss him.

"Are you in an episode at the moment? Or a swing or whatever, I don't know which term you prefer."

"In an episode of what? Not even—my life is kind of a cartoon, Banner, but—"

"I mean, are you manic or depressed right now?"

"I'm not, I, uh." Clint forces himself to breathe again. Real eloquent Barton, he berates himself. What a fucking idiot. "Dunno."

"That's okay." Still, Bruce doesn't falter. He smoothly finishes the last stich in Clint's hand and moves onto his forearm, where the gashes are longer but not as deep. "How does the world feel now? Fast or slow?"

"Waffles." Clint blurts, letting out a short, half-hysterical laugh when Bruce looks at him in confusion. "I mean, uh, like syrup. Like, slow."

Bruce smiles faintly at the word association and Clint breathes. He hasn't pissed him off yet.

"Slow like you're fighting through it? Swimming?" Clint nods. "Okay. And how does your head feel? Your thoughts and stuff?"

"Fast." He doesn't hesitate to answer, stretching out the vowel for emphasis. Seems like the thing to do. "Faaast. Like way fast. Can't fucking think, everything flies away."

"And are you seeing or hearing anything you're not sure is there? Or stuff that seems weird?" Clint shakes his head at this one, feeling a little light-headed from the blood loss. "That's good."

"Didn't take the brown acid this time."

He lets out a shaky chuckle, and Banner smiles back placidly. Clint's not sure if he's being humoured or Bruce is genuinely glad he's not completely crazy right now. He's not sure if he minds which is the case, as long as Bruce keeps being calm and tolerant, and acting like he knows what to do while Clint flounders.

"Sorry about—this was really dumb." The doctor shakes his head, but Clint ploughs on, he has to. "No, no, you didn't have to fix me up, did anyway—you're a good man Bruce Banner. Charlie Brown."

Even Bruce lets out a little laugh at that, and Clint's tears dry up. Not that he notices.

"This isn't your first rodeo." Banner lays a latex-wrapped finger on Clint's unwounded forearm, indicating a number of faded white scars and pale pink slashes that he'd never been close enough to see before.

Jerkily, Clint shrugs. It had been hard enough to explain to Phil, and he'd been fairly lucid that time, if a little drunk. His depressing personal history isn't something he really wants to delve into right now, since he can see the road it leads down and he wants to keep his remaining arm intact, if possible.

"Wasn't on purpose, not, this time was—I was mad, missed the shot." He closes his eyes again in shame. He'd fucking missed. He couldn't miss, what else was he good for? "Can't miss my shot. Other, other times was—yeah was like that, on purpose, but not this time. Didn't mean it."

Talking is exhausting. Bruce notices the weakness Clint's rambling speech has taken on and pats him on the thigh, a silent okay to stand down. He doesn't ask any more questions, just lets Clint sit quietly and try to zone out from the push-pull of the needle stitching him back together, eyes slipping closed tiredly. He's suddenly fucking exhausted, and he wonders how rude it'd be to go to sleep while someone's stitching him up. Probably very, and he doesn't want to fuck up any more than he already has.

The door of the range is yanked open and someone enters, frantic. Clint's eyes snap open and he can't help the pathetic little whine of relief he lets out. He hasn't seen Phil this panicked for years, and the fear in the other man's eyes only fades a little when he sees Clint isn't bleeding out, but he's _here_. It isn't until Phil's looked at the damage for himself that he lets out a breath and pulls Clint into an awkward hug, careful not to move him too much from where Bruce is finishing up.

"God, Clint." He sounds _scared_ , and that's when tears start crawling down Clint's face again.

"M'sorry."

"What happened?"

Clint doesn't know if Phil's talking to him or Banner, or if he even has a right to speak after he's fucked up so badly. He tries to explain anyway. At least then he's said his piece, when Phil gets mad.

"I punched the window." He gestures with a vague cant of his head. "M'hands were shaking, couldn't fucking—couldn't shoot straight. Couldn't think. Dunno what. _Phil_."

He's aware that he's kind of talking nonsense, but Phil squeezes his shoulder anyway like he understands. He doesn't even get angry. Vaguely, Clint thinks that he doesn't deserve someone as patient as Phil, who's seen him manic before but nothing like this. Clint barely notices that he's still crying, but the heat of his face and the distress in Phil's expression tells him that he is.

Banner fastens the last piece of gauze in place with some tape, checking his work before speaking to Phil. Clint's glad no one is asking him much, he still can't get his words to work in his head, let alone his mouth.

"Clint told me he got diagnosed as bipolar not long ago." It's not phrased as a question but Phil nods an affirmative anyway, like he's in the field. Maybe that's how he's dealing with the situation, Clint figures. "Do you know what medication he's on?"

"Celexa daily, Xanax as needed."

Clint's suddenly ashamed of the fact that he doesn't know what his own medication is called. He wanted to bury his head in the sand, at the time, but now he realises that he's put himself at a disadvantage for no reason. It shocks both him and Phil (he can feel the other man tense up beside him), when Bruce curses with startling force at the information.

"What cowboy put him on Celexa?" Banner is fuming, Clint is surprised to notice. Not Hulk-angry, but seriously pissed off.

"Guy at SHIELD." Clint shrugs, hoping in the back of his mind that no one's going to hit him. Bruce breathes out heavily and Phil just looks perplexed, caught between confusion and concern.

"You shouldn't be on that kind of drug if you're bipolar, Clint. It's probably the last thing you should be on."

"What do you mean?" Phil asks, and Clint can feel the burgeoning anger like a lead pipe laid below the careful calm in his tone. He just hopes it isn't directed at him.

"I think Clint's experiencing a mixed episode. Citalopram can cause that in bipolar patients, which is part of the reason it shouldn't be prescribed to them in the first place. I'm not exactly up on my reading right now, but I'm pretty sure that's still the case."

Phil nods like he understands what's going on, and Clint looks between them both, uncomprehending. He scrubs the tears off his face with his good hand, feeling a kick of resentment at being left out of a conversation about him.

"In English, doc?"

"A mixed episode?" Confusion swims across Banner's features. "Don't you… did this guy seriously give you pills and send you home? Did he talk to you about your diagnosis at all?"

Both the other men swear when he shakes his head, and Clint feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.

He fucked up, even more than usual. Of course he should have asked about his treatment, not just assumed everything would figure itself out once he started taking the pills. He starts shaking more violently and the guilt feels like it's crushing the air out of his lungs. It isn't until Phil's right in his line of sight that he's jerked out of his mortified tunnel vision. He didn't mean to, please don't let them be mad.

"Clint, it's not your fault. No one's blaming you. No one's mad, okay?" Phil's hand is firm on the back of his neck again, secure. Anchor. Ground zero. Safe. "Don't panic, we're not angry with you."

"It's really not your fault Clint, it's whoever the shitty doctor is who's supposed to be treating you." Bruce agrees, and Clint's tremors slowly start to lessen. He listens to Phil breathe and lets that be his compass, guiding him back to a regular breathing pattern. Lets it point him towards calm.

Feeling as if he's intruding at this point, Bruce starts packing up his field kit, taking care to put aside anything that needs sterilising. He still looks angry, but Clint doesn't feel as worried now that Phil's said it's not because of him. It's pathetic how much he relies on Phil, the vicious internal whisper that follows him around constantly hisses, but at the moment he's too worn out to care.

"I'm going to make a few phone calls to SHIELD, because someone doesn't know how to do their job and they're putting people at risk."

Banner lays a hand on Clint's shoulder, giving the illusion that he's talking to him even as he relays instructions to Phil. Clint is halfway pissed off and halfway grateful for the pantomime that he's in control of himself.

"Get some rest. Make sure you eat and drink juice or something sugary, you've lost a fair amount of blood. If it were anyone else, I'd be taking you to the emergency room, but I don't think you want to get put on a psych hold. Be gentle on yourself."

He looks pointedly to Phil.

"No more Celexa. You need to find a doctor who knows what they're doing."

"Noted. Thank you, Bruce." Phil's voice is as strong as ever, but there's something fractured under it that makes Clint feel guilty. "For everything."

"Don't mention it, just take care of Clint." He squeezes Clint on the shoulder, brotherly. "If you feel any worse then you need to go to the hospital. I'll come and check on your stitches tomorrow, alright?"

"'Kay." Clint's eyelids are drooping, but he knows he can't go to sleep here.

He watches Banner's back as he walks away and tries to stay focussed enough to stay awake. He has to keep going. He has to get up on his feet and put on a brave face for Phil, get one foot in front of the other until they get home and he can fall into bed. Phil's hand has never left the back of his neck. He can't articulate why it makes him feel better, but maybe that's just because his words are fucking up today.

Clint blinks, hard, drags his eyes back open. Tries to stand up, but can't do more than shift forwards a little. Then Phil's voice is in his ear and he lets himself relax. He's safe, no one's angry, Phil's here.

"I've got you. You can go to sleep if you want, Clint. It's okay."

Clint tries to resist, because he knows if he falls asleep he'll only end up being carried out of the range, probably by Steve or Thor, and it'll be fucking embarrassing. Tony will totally mock him for it, because Tony's allowed, but everyone else will be awkward around him for days, and he doesn't want that. He wants to leave under his own steam, no matter how little he's got left in the tank. He's got to deal with the fallout from this bullshit, and he needs to be conscious for that.

But Phil's _here_ and he's _safe_. The waning adrenaline from the panic and the endorphins from his injuries are all conspiring against him, and he surrenders, just this once.

He closes his eyes. The aftermath can wait, just for a little while.


End file.
